Stern Men (39 page)

He waved at the kid. The kid, Candy, on her mother’s lap, was as regal and inscrutable as a lioness.

“But that reminds me of when I took Dotty’s mother on our honeymoon.”

Someone in the crowd whooped, and everyone laughed. Babe Wishnell shook his finger, like
tut-tut-tut,
and continued. “When I took Dotty’s mother on our honeymoon, we went to Niagara Falls. This was back in the Revolutionary War! No, it was 1945. I was just out of the war. World War Two, that is! Now, I’d gotten stove up pretty bad in a wreck in the South Pacific. I’d seen some pretty serious action over there in New Guinea, but I was ready for action on my honeymoon! You bet! I was ready for a different kind of action!”

Everyone looked to Gladys Wishnell, who was shaking her head.

“So we went to Niagara Falls. We had to take that boat,
The Maid of the Mist.
Now, I didn’t know if Gladys was the type to get seasick. I thought she might get all woozy on me under that waterfall, because you go—you know, you go right
under
the goddamn thing. So I went to the pharmacy, and I bought a bottle of—what’s it called? A bottle of Drambuie? What’s it called that you take for seasickness?”

“Dramamine!” Ruth Thomas called out.

Babe Wishnell peered through the darkening tent at Ruth. He gave her a stern, perceptive look. He didn’t know who she was, but he accepted her answer.

“Dramamine. That’s right. I bought a bottle of Dramamine from the pharmacist. And since I was there anyhow, I bought a package of rubbers, too.”

This brought shrieks of joy and applause from the wedding guests. Everyone looked at Dotty Wishnell and her mother, Gladys, both of whom were wearing the same priceless expression of disbelief and horror.

“Yeah, I bought Dramamine and a package of rubbers. So the pharmacist gives me the Dramamine. He gives me the rubbers. He looks at me and he says, ‘If it makes her so goddamn sick to her stomach, why do you keep doing it to her?’ ”

The wedding guests roared. They applauded and whistled. Dotty Wishnell and her mother both doubled over, laughing. Ruth felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up. It was Mrs. Pommeroy.

“Hey,” Ruth said.

“May I sit here?”

“Sure, sure.” Ruth patted the seat next to her, and Mrs. Pommeroy sat down.

“Hiding?” she asked Ruth.

“Yeah. Tired?”

“Yeah.”

“I know Charlie Burden thinks he’s going to get rich, marrying a Wishnell girl,” Babe Wishnell continued, as the laughter died down. “I know he thinks it’s his lucky day. He probably has his eye on some of my boats and gear. Well, he may get it. He may get all my boats in the end. But there’s one ship I’d never want Charlie and Dotty to have. Do you know what ship that is?
Hardship.
”

The crowd said, “Awww . . .” Gladys Wishnell wiped her eyes.

“My new son-in-law ain’t the smartest guy on the island. I heard they were going to make him the master of the lighthouse over on Crypt Rock for a spell. Well, that didn’t work out so great. Charlie turned the light off at nine o’clock. They asked him why, and he said, ‘All good people should be in bed by nine o’clock.’ That’s right! Lights out, Charlie!”

The guests laughed heartily. Charlie Burden looked as if he might throw up.

“Yeah, let’s have a hand for Charlie and Dotty. I hope they have a real good time. And I hope they stay on here on Courne Haven forever. They might like it over there in Boston, but I’m not one for cities. I don’t like cities at all. Never have. There’s only one city I like. It’s the best city in the world. Do you know what city that is?
Generosity.
”

The crowd said “Awww . . .” again.

“He’s a real joker,” Ruth said to Mrs. Pommeroy.

“He likes those puns,” she agreed.

Mrs. Pommeroy took Ruth’s hand as they watched Babe Wishnell finish his toast with some more puns, some more jabs at his new son-in-law.

“That man could buy and sell every last one of us,” Mrs. Pommeroy said, wistfully.

There were cheers for Babe Wishnell at the end of his toast, and he took a dramatic bow and said, “And now, I’m real honored because Lanford Ellis is here with us. He wants to say a couple words, and I think we all want to hear whatever he has to say. That’s right. It’s not too often we see Mr. Ellis. It’s a real honor for me that he’s come to my daughter’s wedding. So there he is, over there. Let’s keep it real quiet now, everyone. Mr. Lanford Ellis. A very important man. Going to say some words.”

Cal Cooley rolled Mr. Ellis in his wheelchair to the center of the room. The tent became silent. Cal tucked Mr. Ellis’s blanket tighter.

“I am a lucky man,” Mr. Ellis began, “to have such neighbors.” Very slowly, he looked around at all those in the tent. It was as if he were tallying each neighbor. A baby started to cry, and there was a rustle as the mother took the child out of the tent. “There is a tradition on this island—and on Fort Niles, too—of hard work. I remember when the Swedes on Courne Haven were making cobblestones for the Ellis Granite Company. Three hundred good quarrymen could each make two hundred cobblestones a day for five cents each. My family always appreciated the hard work.”

“This is an interesting wedding toast,” Ruth whispered to Mrs. Pommeroy.

Mr. Ellis went on. “Now you are all lobstermen. That’s fine work, too. Some of you are Swedes, the descendants of Vikings. The Vikings used to call the ocean the Path of the Lobster. I am an old man. What will happen to Fort Niles and Courne Haven when I am gone? I am an old man. I love these islands.”

Mr. Ellis stopped speaking. He was looking at the ground. He had no expression on his face, and an observer might have thought that the man had no idea where he was, that he had forgotten he was speaking to an audience. The silence lasted a long time. The wedding guests began to look at one another. They shrugged and looked at Cal Cooley, standing a few feet behind Mr. Ellis. But Cal did not appear concerned; he wore his usual expression of bored disgust. Somewhere, a man coughed. It was so quiet, Ruth could hear the wind in the trees. After a few minutes, Babe Wishnell stood up.

“We want to thank Mr. Ellis for coming all the way over to Courne Haven,” he said. “How about that, everyone? That means a lot to us. How about a big hand for Mr. Lanford Ellis? Thanks a lot, Lanford.”

The crowd broke into relieved applause. Cal Cooley wheeled his boss to the side of the tent. Mr. Ellis was still looking at the ground. The band started to play, and a woman laughed too loudly.

“Well, that was an unusual toast, too,” said Ruth.

“Do you know who’s over at Pastor Wishnell’s house, sitting on the back steps of the house all by himself?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked Ruth.

“Who?”

“Owney Wishnell.” Mrs. Pommeroy handed Ruth a flashlight. “Why don’t you go find him? Take your time.”

From hunger to cannibalism is a short step, and although the lobster fry are kept from congregating, there still occur chances of individuals coming momentarily into contact with one another, and, if hungry, they make the most of their opportunities.

—A Method of Lobster Culture
A. D. Mead, Ph.D. 1908

 

 

 

 

RUTH, WITH HER WHISKEY in one hand and Mrs. Pommeroy’s flashlight in the other, found her way over to Pastor Wishnell’s house. There were no lights on inside. She walked to the back of the house and discovered, as Mrs. Pommeroy had said she would, Owney. He was sitting on the steps. He made a big shadow in the dark. As Ruth slowly moved the beam of the flashlight over him, she saw that he was wearing a gray sweatshirt with a zipper and a hood. She went over and sat beside him and turned off the flashlight. They sat in the dark for a while.

“Want some?” Ruth asked. She offered Owney her glass of whiskey. He accepted it and took a long swallow. The contents of the glass didn’t seem to surprise him. It was as if he was expecting whiskey from Ruth Thomas at that moment, as if he’d been sitting here waiting for it. He handed her the glass, she drank some, and passed it back to him. The drink was soon gone. Owney was so quiet, she could scarcely hear him breathing. She set the glass on the step, near the flashlight.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” she asked.

“Yes,” Owney said, and he stood up.

He offered her his hand, and she took it. A solid grip. He led her back through the garden, over the low brick wall, past the roses. She had left the flashlight on the steps of the house, and so they picked their way carefully. It was a clear night, and they could see their way. They walked through a neighbor’s yard, and then they were in the woods.

Owney led Ruth to a path. Now it was dark, because of the overhang, the shadow of spruces. The path was narrow, and Owney and Ruth walked single file. Because she didn’t want to fall, she put her right hand on his right shoulder to balance herself. As she felt more confident, she took her hand off his shoulder, but reached for him whenever she was unsure.

They did not speak. Ruth heard an owl.

“Don’t be afraid,” Owney said. “The island’s full of noises.”

She knew those noises. The woods were at once familiar and disorienting. Everything smelled, looked, sounded like Fort Niles but wasn’t Fort Niles. The air was sweet, but it was not her air. She had no idea where they were, until, suddenly, she sensed a great opening to her right, and she realized they were high up, along the edge of a gutted quarry. It was an old Ellis Granite Company scar, like the ones on Fort Niles. Now they moved with great caution, because the path Owney had chosen was only four feet or so from what seemed to be a serious drop. Ruth knew that some of the quarries were several hundred feet deep. She took baby steps because she was wearing sandals, and the soles were slippery. She was aware of a slickness beneath her feet.

They walked along the edge of the quarry for a while and then were back in the woods. The sheltering trees, the enclosed space, the embracing darkness was a relief, after the wide gape of the quarry. At one point they crossed an old railway. As they got deeper into the woods, it was hard to see, and after they had walked a half hour, in silence, the dark suddenly became thicker, and Ruth saw why. Just to her left was a shelf of granite reaching up into the darkness. It may have been a wall a hundred feet high of good black granite; it swallowed up the light. She reached out and brushed the surface with her fingers; it was damp and cool and mossy.

She said, “Where are we going?” She could really barely see Owney.

“For a walk.”

She laughed, a quiet, nice sound that didn’t travel at all.

“Is there a destination?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and, to her great delight, he laughed. Ruth joined him; she liked the sound of their laughter in these woods.

Now they stopped. Ruth leaned back against the granite wall. It was slightly tilted, and she tilted with it. She could just make out Owney standing in front of her. She reached out to his arm and felt along it all the way down to his hand. Nice hand.

“Come here, Owney,” she said, and laughed again. “Come in here.” She pulled him close, and he put his arms around her, and there they stood. Against her back was the cold dark granite; against the front of her was Owney Wishnell’s big warm body. She pulled him closer and pressed the side of her face to his chest. She really, really liked the way he felt. His back was wide. She didn’t care if this was all they did. She didn’t care if they held each other this way for hours and did nothing else.

No, actually; she did care.

Now everything was going to change, she knew, and she lifted her face and kissed him on the mouth. To be exact, she kissed him
in
the mouth, a thoughtful and long wet kiss and—what a nice surprise!—what a fat, excellent tongue Owney Wishnell had! God, what a lovely tongue. All slow and salty. It was a gorgeous tongue.

Ruth had kissed boys before, of course. Not many boys, because she didn’t have access to many. Was she going to kiss the Pommeroy sons? No, there hadn’t been many eligible boys in Ruth’s life, but she’d kissed a few when she’d had the chance. She had kissed a strange boy on a bus to Concord one Christmas, and she had kissed the son of a cousin of Duke Cobb’s who’d been visiting for a week from New Jersey, but those episodes were nothing like kissing Owney Wishnell’s big soft mouth.

Maybe this was why Owney spoke so slowly all the time, Ruth thought; his tongue was too big and soft to form quick words. Well, what of it. She put her hands on the sides of his face and he put his hands on the sides of her face, and they kissed the hell out of each other. Each held the other’s head firmly, the way you hold that of an errant child and get right in his face and say, “Listen!” And they kissed and kissed. It was great. His thigh was shoved so hard up into her crotch that it almost lifted her off the ground. He had a hard, muscled thigh.
Good for him,
Ruth thought.
Nice thigh.
She didn’t care if they never did anything but kiss.

Yes, she did. She
did
care.

She took his hands off her face, took his big wrists in her own hands, and pushed his hands down to her body. She placed his hands on her hips, and he pushed himself even closer against her and—he was deep in her mouth now with that gorgeous sweet tongue—he moved his hands up her body until his palms were covering her breasts. Ruth realized that if she didn’t get his mouth on her nipples soon she was going to die.
That’s right,
she thought,
I will die.
So she unbuttoned the front of her sundress and pulled away the fabric and pushed his head down, and—he was brilliant! He made a touching, quiet little moan. It was as if her whole breast was in his mouth. She could feel it all the way to her lungs. She wanted to growl. She wanted to arch back into it, but there was no room to arch, with that rock wall behind her.

“Is there someplace we can go?” she asked.